BZRK: Apocalypse (BZRK 3)

They had said then that they were sorry for his loss.

He swallowed hard, trying to avoid the terrible rush of pleasure that flowed each time he recalled the murder, each time, oh, God, to enjoy it, to be excited by it …

For a moment he thought he might vomit. Or actually become physically aroused. Or both at once.

I will kill you, Nijinsky. I don’t know how, but I will kill you.

“Massed preprogrammed attack,” Charles said, trying to take control of the conversation to forestall more rage from his brother. They could still use Burnofsky, so long as they were careful. Let him reveal all to BZRK: without details it would mean nothing.

“What about a preprogrammed attack?” Burnofsky asked cautiously.

Charles smiled. “It’s time we learned more about some of our … toys.” He nodded. “Yes, Karl, we want to learn how to do it.”

“You mean, how to program an attack using self-replicating nanobots? Yourselves?”

“Are we too stupid?” Benjamin demanded. “Is that what you think? Do you think we rose from where we began to all of this by being stupid?” He waved his hand to encompass all of what he’d earlier called his gilded cage.

No, by being rage-filled lunatics, Burnofsky thought. And by having a very rich grandfather.

“I am very well aware of your intellect,” Burnofsky soothed.

“Perhaps not quite on your level, Karl,” Charles said. “But as I understand it, there’s an app for this.”

Burnofsky’s first thought was that they meant to use it against him. But no, there were so many ways they could kill him, they wouldn’t be cute about it.

“Gentlemen,” Burnofsky said, “if you have thirty minutes, I can teach you to use the app.”

“Wake up, Anthony. You have a visitor.”

Bug Man sat up fast. The lights were on. But it must still be night out beyond the shuttered windows.

George III had a cup of coffee in his hand. He gave it to Bug Man.

“What?” Bug Man said.

“Someone wants to meet you.”

Bug Man was not yet fully awake, but he was getting there fast. “No one knows I’m here.” Awful suspicion blossomed. “You sold me out! You mother—”

“Drink your coffee,” George said, and sighed. “If I was selling you out, would I start by bringing you a cappuccino? It’s full-fat milk—you’re not watching your cholesterol, I hope.”

Bug Man took a sip. George was trying to act cool, but he was upset. Something had disturbed his typical sangfroid.

“Put on some clothing. It’s just one of my compatriots here to brief you on next steps.” He was lying. He was lying and he was jumpy, very unlike his usual self.

“In the middle of the night?”

“She has an early flight.”

George left the room. Bug Man took another sip of coffee. A soft knock at the door.

“Yeah, George,” Bug Man yelled, “I’m getting up. Damn, give a brother a few minutes to—”

The door opened. It was not George, but a white woman. Medium-tall, slender, good-looking but sharp edged. Brunette.

“Hello, Anthony. I’m sorry to barge in on you. But I have to get back to New York, so I don’t have a lot of time.”

She sat down on the foot of the bed, a position that made Bug Man quite uncomfortable since under the blankets he wasn’t wearing anything. He was very conscious of his skinny chest and well-formed but not exactly muscular shoulders.